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My Hols 2011by Charlie Gregory

Spring

I get up early and have a quick coffee. Thats breakfast, nothing more. Were off down themotorway in a couple of hours and I dont want to keep skidding into service areas for a

toilet-emergency. Ever since I changed to drinking wine and whisky my bladders lost its

elasticity. It used have a couple of gallon capacity when I was a beer guzzler. You go

downhill if you dont practice.

Its hot today, hot and dry, one of those spring heatwaves we get every second millennium.

Ive dumped the cases in the boot and Im pacing up and down the hall, waiting for Liz. I told

her we should leave at noon and shes working to that. Shes a trooper, Liz. Tell her noon

and noon it is. Not a minute late. Not a minute early; emphasis on the latter.

The trouble is, the rules have changed over the last couple of days. I didnt arrange this

holiday so Im not in on the nitty-gritty. The thing is, were going off to a narrow boat on the

River Wey. Thats Godalming way. There will be eight of us on the boat. Eight people, that is,

and two dogs. Big dogs, like an Old English Sheep Dog that thinks its still on the farm and

keeps herding everything that moves into one confined space then guarding the escape

route, growling like a lion and displaying a set of choppers the size of elephants tusks. The

other hound is bigger still, a designer breed, Labradoodle, with a head the size of

Birkenhead and a mouth like a Great White, lovingly blessed with a voracious appetite. This

ones friendly enough, but could accidently demolish a house or sink a ship with its massive

crocodile tail which forever shoots back and fore like a Flying Shuttle. The eight othersardines, selected for the tin, are six adults and two kids, Charlie, nine, and Isobel, six.

When I say the rules have changed I mean the feedback to me has changed. The ac tual

rules have stayed the same, but I didnt know them till yesterday. Originally, they told me

the boat was available from 2.30pm onwards. Good. In my little dream that meant that Diz,

Dan and the kids would arrive in one car, with Dougle, the Labradoodle. And Jon and Sylvia

would arrive in another car, along with Ulf, the OESD. As one, they would sign for the boat,

memorise the rules and get things ship-shape. Then, in the fullness of time, Liz and I, both in

our dotage, would turn up, and the boat would glide gracefully down-river like a swan at

sunset.

Then, yesterday, Jon informed me that we all have to be there at 2.30 on the dot for the

briefing and handover. It transpires that we all have to tick all the boxes for Health and

Safety and all that jazz. So now we need to leave home around 10.30 so Come on Liz!

Weve arrived at the river-berth on time, 2.30. Diz and Dan are already aboard. Sylvia and

Jon are unpacking their car and humping stuff along the path. The boats called the Snow

Goose. Shes the longest vessel on the Wey with only inches to spare as she goes through

the locks, all 16 of them. But shes narrow. Looking down from a bridge she looks like a

piece of coloured rope.

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God, Im thirsty. Ive not had a drink since 7.30am. And its hot out here in the sun, waiting

for the man to come and give us a briefing. Im dehydrating so Ill nip into that caf and grab

a coffee. Damn! I cant. The mans arrived and hes going to start the lecture. Hes telling us

all about it now, rattling on about pumps toilets water locks gates fire hydrants

oil and on and on. I hope the others know what hes saying cos Im still pondering the

first pump. The memorys not what it was and my concentration span is in the goldfish

league, and Im hot and I need a drink.

At last, he seems to have finished. Good. Ill nip into the caf. But no. Now he wants to give

us a demonstration on the water. So, Let go forard! as they say in the Sea Cadets.

The tuitions finished now but theres still no coffee. The boys are off to Sainsburys to get

the supplies and the ladies are busy unpacking and I cant find any stuff. Maybe a cup will

appear at some stage. But it doesnt. Theyre itching to get down the water. So were all

busy sorting stuff out and getting ship-shape.

Dan and Jon are back with the rations, which turn out to be beer, Becks, to be more

accurate. Im not a Becks drinker myself. But I am mad -thirsty so, Down the hatch, and

other nautical expressions.

Were sailing merrily down the river now, Becks beer coming out of my ear holes. Now we

tie up by a meadow in the middle of nowhere and settle down to the evening meal, lovingly

prepared by the ladies and washed down with Becks beer.

Now they reveal the sleeping arrangements. The children will be in the two single beds in

the stern, with Diz and Dan in the ensuite berth beside them. Jon and Sylvia, who isexpecting, will be in the midships ensuite berth. Liz and I have drawn the short-straw, the

kitchen, which converts into a bedroom when everyone else has departed, and which is not

ensuit.

Whoa! I protest. My bladders shrunk and Im full of beer. I need to sleep near a

toilet.

Pee in the river, Jon says helpfully.

We sit in the kitchen now, chatting and drinking Becks. Then somewhere around 2300 hours

a minor miracle occurs, Katie, our granddaughter, arrives onboard with her boyfriend. Thatsquite something when you think about it. Katie lives in Plymouth. Her boyfriend lives in

Ascot. And we have got the boat tied to a riverbank in the middle of a huge meadow in

deepest Surrey in the middle of the night. But come they have. Then, in the wee small

hours, they go. Now everyone goes to their ensuite berths while Liz and I set about

constructing our bed, with countless mistakes and much cursing by me.

Im in bed now, and beers seeping down the plumbing. I need a pee. I swing my legs to the

deck and head for the door in the dark. Its bloody cold! I go outside. Its even colder, cold

enough for frost. I clamber up and stand on the side of the boat. Now Im peeing in the

river. Its moonlight, a white frost-mist lying over the meadow, owls hooting, Im shivering,

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my legs are full of goose pimples, my feet are blocks of ice, and Im peeing and peeing and

peeing. It goes on forever, I cant stop; tins of Becks multiplying in my bladder

I get back in bed. At last! Thank GodYaaaaah! Ive got cramp. I leap out of bed and

dance and kick my legs in the six inch space between the bed and the bulkhead. Im in

agony, and cold, freezing cold.

At last, frozen and exhausted, I collapse back into bed and pull the blanket over my

head. Thank God for that! Oh no *@

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At this stage Dan and I bail out. As we leave the Snow Goose and stride along the bank,

Dan punches the air Yes! he cries.

The others beat up river, toilets and bowels full to overflowing, work the locks and pray

to the Lord as they make for the lifesaving marina. They head straight for the pump by the

sceptic tank, leap ashore and read the notice. Closed on Tuesdays, it tells them.

Shit! This is Tuesday!

Summer

A couple of months later, Liz and I are off on another boat. This ones a Cunarder, the Queen

Victoria, bound for the Baltic.

On the first morning we go to the Lido for breakfast. The Lidos up-top on deck nine. Its a

good place to eat because its bright and informal with picture windows and tables close

enough to be matey yet distant enough to be private. Its buffet service. I dont usually like

buffet service; all those people poking at the sausages and honking over the ash browns. Ialways end up at with a reject egg and cold bacon. But its different in Cunard. The food

comes straight out of the pan onto your plate. White Star service. And these posh people

turn away to sneeze. Breeding.

The drawback with the Lido is that you have 2,000 people wanting food and a seat at

the same time. On the other hand, when you eventually find a place to sit, its good fun to

watch everyone else wandering about like lost souls, looking for a parking place, with their

White Star breakfast degenerating before their eyes.

We turn out to be sitting next to an American couple, Norman and his wife. Hes a little

tough guy, very broad, thickset and muscular. I like him. We get on fine. We both see our

respective countries as having deteriorated in almost identical ways. Thats growing old foryou.

Norman brings it home to me. Ever since I left school Ive been rubbing shoulders with

people from every quarter of the globe. I find that, at grass roots level, were all pretty much

the same. Our main concerns are health, food, shelter and a good place for our kids and

their kids to live.

So whos causing the trouble out there?

Evening comes round, 2030, dinnertime, black tie and all that jazz. We chose to sit at a table

for six. If it was just a table for two, which is what I would have opted for, Elizabeth would

have felt out-of-it. She likes people. Ive got reservations. If we were at a table for four andwe didnt get on with the other two... nightmare. So we settled for six. That gives me a one

in five chance of finding someone I get on with.

In this case we are lucky, the six of us get on fine. The others turn out to be Mr and Mrs

Scouse from Liverpool and Mr and Mrs Taff from somewhere full of double-fs, ds andlls in

West Wales, so mealtimes are convivial. As we settle down for our first meal, we introduce

ourselves and start feeling our way into a pleasant relationship.

In mid conversation, my companions disappear as an open menu drifts slowly down in

front of my face, like a descending fire curtain, missing my nose by a whisker. Conversation

pauses as our ageing Portuguese waiter repeats the operation on each of my fellow diners,

until, job done, the debate resumes. Were chatting away merrily now, when, Whit wid youlaike, sir? a voice like a mating corncrake grates in my ear from behind, hot breath on the

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back of my neck. Verry naiss, the waiter assures me when I squeal a startled reply. And

you liedee, whit would you laike? he whispers seductively in my wifes shell-like before

moving round the rest of his flock, repeating himself over and over,Whit would you laik

liedee? Verry naiss...

I had noticed earlier, in the bar, that the price of a pint of beer was the same as in a

posh hotel and, rubbing salt in the wound, there was an additional 15% service charge.

I bring this up now. Thats steep, I complain. I was trained to give a 10% tip, not 15.

They all agree.

You dont get... Mrs Taff disappears behind a bowl of steaming soup, cut off in mid

flow. ...15, or even 10% interest in the bank, she continues when she reappears.

I thought we would get cheap I say, as a soup descends slowly down in front of my

face, ...drinks, I continue, when my companions come back into view. After all... I pause.

Mrs Scouses head is disappearing before my very eyes, replaced by a plate of something

steamy and the face of a Portuguese waiter. ...Its all duty free on the high-seas.

Did you know you are all paying... Mrs Taff is saying.

Yes, laidee, the waiter interrupts, sliding something in front of her face.She waits patiently. Eleven dollars a day, each,just for entering this room.

Eh?!

Yes Mrs Scouse wants to join in, but a plate hovers in front of her face.

Its in the small print, her husband springs to her rescue.

...Extra service charge, Mrs Scouse has rejoined us.

What?! We explode in unison.

Bon appetite, the waiter tells us.

An alcohol-based hand-gel dispenser, like those on hospital wards, guards every entrance to

every dining area. Hawk eyes make sure you comply with the compulsory hand wash. Ifrown at first but, fair enough, bugs can whip through these tour-boats like a Nebraska

twister through a cattle ranch. You cant be too careful.

When I go to the toilet, realisation dawns. If I ever thought the alcohol dispenser was a

bit over the top, I change my mind now. This bog paper is gossamer thin; deadly dangerous.

These rolls should come with a finger bowl attached. They might be OK for the constipated

masses and genteel ladies from the shires, but they are of little use to a hairy-assed larger

shifter like myself. I visualise a lavatorial crisis and implore the room-steward to leave me

ample reserves of paper.

Weve got class here, big-time. Even the stewards and menials are posh. Theres no riffraffanywhere. All the men have dicky bows tucked away somewhere. And all those women

come with trunks full of evening gowns and jewellery.

But top of the class are the Grill Passengers. I call them the Grillers. They live on deck

eleven, close to heaven. You never see them. Nay. You never know youve seen them.

Theyre like Freemasons, invisible to the naked eye. I suspect that they re those strange

people who sit in the boxes in the theatre and squint at the stage sideways, pretending not

to be interested.

I did come across a Griller once. The ship had docked in Tallin or some such place. The

gangway for going ashore was on deck A, which is below deck 1 and about as near to sea

level as you can get without wearing a snorkel. So we gets in the lift on deck 8 and pressesthe button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 5 and people get it. They press

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the button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 4 and more people get in. They

press the button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 3 and more people get in.

They press the button for deck A, like you do. Now the lift stops at deck 1. Yippee! This is

only one deck above deck A. Were nearly there.

One woman gets in. We dont know it, but shes a Griller. She produces a card, slips it in

a slot, and whoosh... the lift shoots back to deck 11, next to heaven, and she gets out

without so much as a, drop dead.

Class!

We press the button for deck A, like you do.

I travel light. Which means that, apart from underpants and socks, which I trample

underfoot in the shower, I rely heavily on the services of the local dhobi wallah. Elizabeth

will have none of this. She can sniff out a washing machine at five miles. If there is a

launderette in the land she will load me with a pile of grubby castoffs and drag me to it, like

a Romanian peasants donkey. This routine happens again on the Victoria where every

passenger-deck has its dedicated launderette.So, one Baltic afternoon I find myself, like Mr Woo, in a den full of washerwomen who

have gathered to gossip and discuss the optimum temperature for fumigating knickers.

Its here, in the washing den, that I see her again, the apparition who haunts every

launderette in the world.

The door flings open and she barges in; a big fat woman; solid; super-heavyweight;

aggressive; Tyson scowl. As always, shes hugging that massive basket, piled incredibly high

with an impossible amount of festering unmentionables.

I first heard about this phenomena when my parents were alive and living in sheltered

housing. They shared a washroom, like this on the Victoria, with the rest of their

neighbours. There was a rota for using the machines, but that went up in smoke when thisapparition appeared, like Beelzebub, wielding a loaded basket.

In my parents place, the residents concluded it was the spirit of an aggressive

neighbour who had died and was doing the washing for the corpses in the cemetery. But

Ive seen the same vision, many times since, in launderettes as far apart as Australia and the

Arctic Circle. So I know better.

Its the Devils washerwoman.

This day on the Victoria, in she comes, ignores the queue, and marches straight to a

dryer and drags everything out. Then she opens a washing machine, snatches out the wet

clothes and stuffs them into the dryer shes just emptied. Now she tips her basket of putrid

rags into the newly vacant washing machine, slams it shut, turns on her heels and marchesout, all in a single movement. Not a word spoken. In and out in a flash then back to hell.

I know about this. She does it all day, every day, in every launderette in the world; seen

it with my own eyes.

The rest of us stand, like sheep in an abattoir, hoping to slip one of our smellies into a

cleansing-machine before the return of the demon.

I lean on the rail, gazing over the Skagerrak at the coast of Denmark; flat sea; flat land.

Flat earth? I wonder, but, No, I decide. Ive seen the photographs from outer space.

Its a bladder of blue cheese.

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Talking of flat earth, reminds me. My dad used to work with a bloke who was in the Flat

Earth Society. Mad as a goat. The scary bit is that MI5 put him under surveillance then took

him in for questioning. Things like that help me sleep sound at night.

Theyve peppered these flat Baltic lands with wind turbines; uncannily Quixotic in this day

and age: Windmills vs Climate Change. May the strongest force win.

Its evening now. We sit in the open-plan Chartroom Bar having a pre-dinner drink. The

Chartroom is on deck two, next to the dining room at the aft end of the ship. That dining

room is big, real big; second only in impressiveness to the city-sized theatre situated in the

bow. They feed 2,000 people in two sittings in that canteen. If my arithmetics correct thats

1,000 souls per sitting. And they all have to drift past this lounge to get there.

Its probably the most fascinating time of any day, to sit in this nautically themed bar,

picture windows overlooking the sea, and watch that passageway over there. First, an odd

couple drift by, then twos and threes, then groups. Then a continuous stream of people in

dinner suit and evening gown. They all go floating past while you watch; not one hundred,but hundreds and hundreds of them, first in one direction then the other; first to dine, then,

topped-up with three courses of bloating calories, back to the ballroom or theatre. None of

them are under 70. Some have been dead for years.

Its like they are not real. Like they are phantoms, ghosts from the past re-living an age

that has gone. Maybe Im seeing spirits, fresh from their watery staterooms, drifting over

the decks of long gone Atlantic liners.

And look, theres breakfast Norman. Hey! Heswearing an army officers dress-uniform,

more medals than Idi Amin. My God, maybe hes Storming Norman of Desert Storm. But

no... I dont believe it, that uniform is identical to the one they wore in t he American Civil

War. Ive seen them in films.So maybe none of this is real, just ghosts from the past reliving the first and best

four days on the Titanic...

Our ancient steward in the restaurant, oblivious of people, going through the motions

of the years, serving and clearing, serving and clearing, like he did at that last dinner on that

fatal day in mid Atlantic...

Norman in his cavalry outfit, on vacation from killing Confederates...

The Devils Hag, haunting the launderette

The Queen Victoria, like the Flying Dutchman, a ship with no cargo, going nowhere in

particular; drifting round the flatlands of Scandinavia where Don Quixotes tilt windmills at

Continental DriftIve seen enough. Beam me up.